


Poisoning via chicken, or something like that

by chanderson



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Character, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23192611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: “I’m fine. Sorry for bothering you.”“You aren’t bothering me,” Q says immediately. “It’s ok. You’re allowed to not feel well every once in a while.”“I’m fine.”“Yes, but you don’t have to be.”In which James requires the services of his Quartermaster on a mission, for a different reason.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 7
Kudos: 162





	Poisoning via chicken, or something like that

**Author's Note:**

> Hi this is my first Bond fic! Love the idea of James getting sick, being useless, and needing Q. Not enough fics have sick James, so here I am attempting to fill that gap.

Q is sitting in headquarters busily typing away at some new code, a cup of steaming Early Grey sitting near his elbow, when he gets a notification that 007 has activated his comms. Q frowns and pulls up Bond’s location through Smart Blood. It shows him at his hotel — the Royalton Blue Waters, a 5 star resort in Jamaica a hair's breath away from the ocean that Q is sure Bond is enjoying maybe a little too much. Q zooms in and pinpoints Bond in his hotel room on the top floor. Furrowing his brow, Q slips on the headset, absently pushing his Early Grey out of the way. 

“007, everything ok?” Q says, businesslike, though he feels worry curling in his gut. At first the only sound over the line is a low moan, unmistakably Bond. Q pulls up Bond’s vitals and scans them quickly: Elevated heart rate, though nothing too worrisome. A slight fever. “Bond?” Q asks again, brusquer. 

“Hey Q,” Bond finally whispers shakily. “You havin’ a good night?”

“What’s wrong 007?” Q replies, softer, nudging him back on track. 

“I think I’ve been poisoned.” Bond pants softly and moans low in his throat. Q suddenly sits up straighter, anxiously straightening his glasses on the bridge of his nose. 

“Do you know with what?” Q asks, even as he scans Bond’s system for poison on the computer screen to his left. Bond’s location continues blinking on the screen to his right, like a heartbeat. 

“Don’t—” Bond swallows audibly. “Don’t know.” 

“What are your symptoms?” Q turns sharply in his chair and motions for R, who is sitting at her desk, running 005 through a post-mission report. She rises from her chair, concern on her face. 

“Nausea, stomach cramps —” Bond cuts off suddenly and Q winces as the agent noisily vomits. Bond sucks in a sharp breath and spits. “Vomiting,” he continues ruefully, “a little shaky, cold sweats, slight fever.” 

R sticks her head in Q’s office, rocking back on her heels, hand resting lightly on the doorjamb. 

“Everything ok, Quartermaster?” 

“Something’s wrong with Bond. Get M.” R nods quickly and darts back to her desk, fingers already dancing over the phone. 

“Stay calm, 007,” Q says soothingly. “I’m scanning you now. Nothing coming up yet.” 

“Kay,” Bond breathes. 

Just then Q’s computer pings and he lets out a startled bark of laughter. Bond whimpers on the comms line. “Q?” 

“Sorry, um, scan’s back, 007. You have salmonella.” Q motions for R again, swallowing down a laugh. 

“What?” Bond asks slowly, confused. 

Q smiles fondly and says, as R walks in, “food poisoning, Bond. You have food poisoning.” 

“Fuck!” Bond snaps back, before groaning and vomiting again. R quirks one auburn eyebrow, and Q covers the mic to let out another short laugh. 

“He’s fine, just an upset stomach,” Q says to her. “Tell the calvary to back down.” 

“Q,” Bond whines then. “I feel wretched.” Q’s chest tightens, a soft smile tugging at his lips. 

“I’m sorry, 007,” he says once R has backed out. “But there isn’t much I can do from London, now is there? Have you eaten anything questionable?” 

“Ummm,” Bond responds as the toilet flushes faintly in the background. “Had some chicken at a bar in town earlier. Some decent beer, too.” Q snorts and shakes his head affectionately, even though Bond can’t see him. 

“That about explains it then, doesn’t it? Why didn’t you just eat at the hotel? We gave you nice enough accommodations, didn’t we?” Bond hums in acknowledgement before grunting in pain. 

“Hurts Q,” he whispers, voice suddenly disarmingly vulnerable. Then he’s vomiting again, and Q keeps quiet, feeling bad for laughing earlier.

“I know,” he says once Bond is finished. “Do you want me to send Medical in to extract you? I wouldn’t want your cover blown when you’re too sick to fight back.” 

“I don’t need a fucking extraction. I could still fire a bloody shot if I had to,” Bond nearly growls, voice hard, affronted at the perceived challenge to his abilities. Self conscious, Q realizes. 

Q imagines Bond in this moment: Shaky, pale, sweaty, but his mouth still curling up defensively. A hard look in his glacial eyes. 

“No doubt you could, 007,” Q says carefully. “I’m just asking for procedure.” 

“Fuck procedure,” Bond snaps, except then his voice tapers off into a groan. “I’m fine. Sorry for bothering you. I was at the bar earlier, watching the target. Thought he might've sniffed me out and had something slipped into one of my martinis.”

“You aren’t bothering me,” Q says immediately. “It’s ok. You’re allowed to not feel well every once in a while.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yes, but you don’t have to be.”

Q says the words before he can stop himself, wishing he were there to soothe Bond in person. Ridiculous, of course, because Q knows Bond has never let a single person soothe him once in his life. _Unresolved childhood trauma,_ Q remembers reading in Bond’s file when he first got the job as Quartermaster. Clearly. Q surmises that Bond has never had someone take care of him before.

Bond is completely silent for several moments, save his slow, measured breathing on the other end.

“Thank you, Q,” he finally says. 

“You’re very welcome. Do you have some water? You need to keep yourself hydrated.” 

Bond grunts. The muted sound of rustling movement, then the rush of a sink. 

“I do now.” 

“Good. Drink as much as you can. Then get in the bed. Bring a trash can.” 

“Thanks, mum,” Bond mocks, though Q detects a hint of appreciation. 

“You’re welcome, James,” Q says seriously. “If you can, wet a cloth and put it on your forehead. It’ll help with the fever. Looks like it isn’t too bad, anyway. Just a few degrees above normal.” 

“Uhh, ok,” Bond says slowly. “I’m a bit dizzy actually,” he admits. 

Q immediately zooms in on the layout of Bond’s hotel room. 

“Close your eyes. I’ll guide you.” Q squints at his screen. “Place your right hand on the wall and walk forward. When you get to the corner —” he watches the dot move slowly, at a crawl, on the screen — “yes right there, turn the corner and keep going forward. You’ll reach the door.” 

“Ok, uh — fuck,” James suddenly says before coughing and retching. 

Q resists the urge to pull the headset off when Bond gets sick again. 

“Shhh, you’re ok,” he says instead. “If it got on the floor, just go around it and keep walking along the wall. Eyes closed,” Q reminds Bond. 

Together, they manage to navigate the spacious suite, until Bond is in bed. Q breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Not our usual mission, huh?” Bond jokes, the self consciousness back in his voice. 

“No,” Q agrees. “But I’m happy to help.” 

“Um, alright, very well then,” Bond says awkwardly. He pauses then, breathing slowly in Q’s ear. 

“Check in with me in the morning.” 

“Right, of course.” Bond clears his throat. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone down in Q-Branch.” 

“R knows a bit—”

“Q!” 

“I had to alert her when you thought you were _poisoned.”_

“Fair enough,” Bond concedes, before falling quiet. Then, a few seconds later, “you called me James.” 

Q swallows and straightens his tie, a nervous habit. The tips of his ears burn red. 

“I, well, yes,” he stammers. 

“I liked it. You should do it more often.” Bond’s voice is slurred and breathy. 

“Go to sleep 007.”

“That an order?” he asks playfully, sleepily. 

“Yes. You’ll feel better in the morning.” 

Bond hums, and Q can picture the soft, sleepy smile on his face — the way his crows feet would be thrown into sharp relief in the clear moonlight. 

“Kay. Good night, Q.” 

“Good night, James. Activate comms again if you need me.” 

But Bond doesn’t answer. A quiet snuffle lets Q know he’s fallen asleep. 

Q smiles and, despite himself, listens to Bond sleep for a few minutes. 

When he finally takes the headset off, he takes a sip of the Earl Grey that’s long since gone cold. R sticks her head back into the office. 

“Everything ok with Bond?” Q waves his hand dismissively and nods. 

“Fine. Bugger got food poisoning being a little too adventurous with the local cuisine.” 

R laughs and shakes her head, soft curls bouncing. 

“You wanna grab a drink? I’m finished with 005, plus it's nearly one in the morning.” 

Q hesitates half a second before shaking his head. 

“I’m going to stick around in case Jam— Bond needs anything else.” 

R quirks another perfectly shaped eyebrow and purses her lips, squinting at Q before, eventually, smiling. 

“Alright, well, don’t stay too late.” She turns to go, but stops half way out the door.  “Tell James I hope he feels better.” 

Then she’s gone, tan trench coat billowing out behind her. 

Q makes himself a fresh cup of Early Grey and goes back to his work. 

And when Bond activates his comms again a few hours later, Q tries to ignore the little twinge in his chest. 

It’s nothing. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope it wasn't too OOC? Please leave comments. I'm looking to write more in the fandom!


End file.
